AT FIRST I DON’T NOTICE HOW COLD IT HAS GOTTEN. I blame it on the adrenaline swimming lazily in my blood, which perks up when Kenan brushes against me or I hear a loud wave crashing over the side. The other passengers are huddled beside one another, their faces wet with tears, each lost in their own agony. They rub their hands to try and conjure up some warmth. I’m relieved to see Lama is fine, despite the bite of the cold. But Kenan worries me. His eyes droop, and his head nods like he’s about to fall asleep.
“Hey,” I whisper, moving over a bit to create more space. “Sleep on my shoulder.”
He glances up and shakes his head, but when I grab the front of his sweater and guide him down he offers no resistance. My bony shoulder is not much of a cushion but at least my hijab is soft.
“Salama,” he whispers. “I’m fin—”
“Shh. We’re one step closer to eating knafeh. Dream about that.”
He sighs and it takes him all of three seconds to fall asleep. I pray the Panadol eases his pain.
I look up to the sky, watching it slowly swap its colors for dark gray, signaling the end of my old life and the beginning of an unknown one. I distract myself by watching the clouds take their time dissipating after the sun, like handmaidens following their queen. The moon rises instead, throwing his haunting glow down onto the black water. The waves rock gently against the boat, their vibrations spreading through the metal until they reach my skin.
People have started to drift off one by one. But my mind, despite being more drained than it has ever been, is wide awake. I can’t stop watching the stars emerge through the darkness, and I realize that the last time I saw
these constellations I was with Kenan in the abandoned ruins of my home.
It’s hard to believe it happened less than a week ago. It feels like years.
Eons.
I focus on the stars, connecting them with imaginary lines until I really see the silvery thread my mind is conjuring.
He’s here. I look down to find him sitting on the edge of the boat, dangling his feet in the water, his back to me.
“Quiet night,” he remarks, and I shiver. He looks painfully beautiful in the moonlight’s shadow. My heart jumps.
“What are you doing here?” I frown. “Didn’t you say you’re bound to Syria?”
He turns my way, swinging his legs inside. “So eager to get rid of me?”
“I’m sorry; I didn’t have time to mourn your absence, what with being terrified out of my mind the whole way here,” I snap, even though my being here at all was only made possible by his influence. By my brain taking
charge.
He smiles.
“Did you lie to me?” I ask. Will he really keep his promise and leave me alone? I shudder, thinking about waking up one random morning in Germany only to find him hovering at the foot of my bed.
He shakes his head. “We’re still in Syrian waters.”
I glare at him.
“I won’t be with you in Syracuse. I promise,” he says with a laugh.
I ponder his words. “That’s not true,” I whisper. “You’re a part of me just as you’re a part of everyone here.”
He gestures to the darkness. “And all those claimed by the sea. All those who have become bone and dust.” He sighs. “It’s true. I told you before, when you asked me where I’d go. I’m everywhere. But I won’t be there with you physically. Not like in Syria.”
I shiver. “Everywhere,” I say, tasting the word on my tongue. The answer to his existence was there all along.
I can see history woven between his irises. “Everywhere. Since the beginning of time, I have awoken in people’s hearts. I’ve been given many names in countless languages. In yours, I’m Khawf. In English, Fear. In German, Angst. Humans have listened to my whispers, heeded my council, and tasted my power. I’m everywhere. In the breaths of a king executed by
his people. In the last heartbeats of a soldier bleeding out alone. In the tears of a pregnant girl dying at her doorstep.”
I look away, wiping an arm over my eyes. Layla. My sister.
Khawf says gently, “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Then why does it feel like it was?” I whisper, letting my tears trickle down my cheeks. Grief isn’t constant. It wavers, tugging and letting go like the waves on the sea.
He smiles sadly. “Because you’re human. Because no matter what, you have a heart so soft it easily bruises. Because you feel.”
A low cry escapes me.
“But it’s not your fault,” Khawf continues. “Remember what Am said?
If you’re meant to be in Munich, you’ll be there, even if the whole world is against you. Because it’s your fate. It wasn’t Layla’s. It wasn’t your parents’ or Hamza’s either.”
Fate. A complex word that holds many doors leading to countless pathways in life, all controlled by our actions. And so, I hold on to my faith —in knowing that both Layla and I went above and beyond to survive. In knowing she’s in Heaven—alive with Baby Salama. In knowing I’ll see her insh’Allah when it’s my time. That I’ll see Mama, Baba, and Hamza.
“In my heart, I know it’s not my fault,” I murmur, glancing up at the pearl-encrusted skies. I’d give anything to hug Layla right now. “But it’s going to take a while for my mind to accept that. And it hurts. More than I
can bear. I just… miss her so much.”
“I know.”
Khawf suddenly stands up, and my heart jumps to see him balanced on the railing, whispers away from falling. But his posture is straight, perfectly balanced.
“You’ve grown this past year, Salama. I’m rooting for you, you know.
You’ve overcome so many struggles and I’m humbled by them. You might not consider me a friend, but I think of you as one.”
“You’re leaving?” I ask, my stomach dropping.
He laughs and looks at me. “You look so crestfallen!”
“I’m not,” I murmur, but all the same, a blanket of melancholy engulfs me. Without Khawf, I would be buried somewhere in Homs where no one would remember me. Without Layla’s appearing to me, I wouldn’t have found the courage to live for Syria. To fight for my country.
He sweeps his hair to the side, his eyes the shade of hydrangea petals.
“I’ve done my job. I got you on the boat. Whatever happens next is up to you. But no matter what it is, I’m proud of you.” He stretches one leg behind him, giving me a small bow.
“Goodbye,” I whisper, and when I blink, he’s gone.
I stare at the place he vanished from, thinking he might appear again, but he doesn’t. I raise my hands, glance at them, searching my soul for any difference, and I find it in the way my heart feels a bit lighter. Something in the air has changed as well. Like reality sharpening and settling into place.
Kenan shifts, lifting his head up, his eyelashes fluttering sleepily.
“Hey,” I whisper, tilting toward him and pressing a palm on his forehead. Warm, but not too warm. “How are you feeling?”
He grimaces. “Slightly seasick.”
Lama and Yusuf are fast asleep, their heads slumped over their backpacks, and I’m glad. If they were awake, they’d also be suffering from the nausea.
“Let me get a lemon.” I take one out along with the knife from Kenan’s bag, cut it into wedges, and pass him a piece. I nibble on my slice, relishing the sour taste.
I settle back beside Kenan. “How’s your back? Chest? Head? I saw what the soldiers did to you.”
He bites at the lemon, his expression scrunching from its acidity, and
coughs. “They’re fine.”
“Kenan.”
He sighs. “The Panadol helped for a bit, though it still hurts.”
One-gram Panadols can only be taken every four hours, or else there’s a risk of toxicity. He took one less than two hours ago before he fell asleep.
I decide to distract him instead. “Khawf is gone.”
“Forever?”
“More or less.”
“Well, good,” he says, satisfied. “Because now I can tell you I didn’t like him.”
I clasp a hand over my mouth, laughing silently. “Were you jealous?”
A faint smile pulls at his lips. “Actually, I wanted to punch him for annoying you, but I didn’t want you to think he bothered me. Or to remind you of him when he wasn’t there.”
“Ah, my hero.”
He grins. “I try.”
I nestle closer, and we finish up our lemon wedges.
“Tell me something good, Salama,” he murmurs, pressing his head against mine.
“For the past year,” I begin slowly, “Syria was gray. The destroyed buildings and roads. The ashy faces of the starving. Sometimes the skies.
Our life literally became monochrome, alternating with a harsh red. While some were able to see past it, I forgot other colors existed. I forgot happiness was a possibility. But when you showed me that sunset on your roof and I saw pink and purple and blue… it felt like… like I was seeing color for the first time.” I glance at him and see his eyes glittering with emotion.
“Imagine what Germany will be like,” I continue. “Imagine painting our apartment blue like Layla’s painting. And I was thinking we’d draw a map of Syria on one wall.”
“I love it,” Kenan says instantly. “I love you.”
I smile, and in that moment I know Layla would be beaming, her eyes sparkling with happy tears, if she could see me like this: stranded in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, the cold water trying to sneak under my clothes, and rather than letting my terror take the reins, I choose to focus on a future where I’m alive. Where I’m safe.
I wake up with a jolt. How long was I asleep? The lemon’s effect must have worn off, because my stomach flips and nausea sours my blood.
People’s shapes dip in and out of my vision, and their voices are dim in my ears. I rub my eyes, groaning from the cramps, and when I open them again, everything tumbles sharply into place. It must be morning by now but the sun is hidden behind thick clouds. Someone shakes me, and I turn to Kenan.
“What?” I ask groggily. A scream pierces the air, and it wakes me from my stupor.
Kenan grips my shoulder tightly, and in a measured voice I don’t recognize, he says, “Salama, the weather is bad.”
He suppresses a shiver, and I crane my neck to study the sea. Aided by the wind, the waves are throwing themselves hard against the boat, rocking it and my heart as well.
“There’s a lot of people. The boat isn’t new. It can’t handle all of us. We don’t have time,” he says calmly, but the terror is more than visible in his words.
I don’t understand. This boat has made the trip countless times. Am promised!
Kenan pulls me back. The bruise under his eye looks ink black.
“When the boat goes down, you have to stay as close to me as you can, do you understand?” he says firmly.
Lama is crying, and she isn’t the only one. The screaming, pleading, and praying are deafening—I wonder whether the sounds have reached land.
“How far are we from Italy?” I ask.
“The captain is trying to signal them right now,” Kenan says. “Even if they come, it’ll be hours. We’ll already be in the water.”
I press my hand against his forehead. Warm.
“The water’s freezing. You’re exhausted and maybe even feverish. If you go in, I don’t know what it’ll do to your system.” He’ll get hypothermia. My heart beats painfully against my chest.
He shakes his head. “We don’t have a choice.”
“Life rafts?”
“Salama, this is a fishing boat. It isn’t meant to survive more than a few hours offshore. There are no life rafts.”
I must be showing signs of distress because Kenan cups my cheek with one hand and draws me closer to him.
“Have faith,” he whispers. “We’ll make it. Stay close to me and have faith.”
I nod, squeezing a few tears out. He straightens up and eyes his siblings, who are so petrified they can’t move.
“All right, you guys,” he says, and I’m astounded at how calm he is. “I need you to stick together, and once we’re in the water, kick your legs just a little to stay up, okay? Your life jackets will do the rest. It’s important you don’t panic. Take deep breaths, and insh’Allah we’ll be fine.”
Lama clings to Yusuf and they both nod. I strap my backpack inside my life jacket and my heart sinks—I know that when we go underwater my passport and certificate won’t survive. The sky looks near, as if promising to drown us in its dark gray as well.
Most of the people are already standing, so Kenan tells us to do the same. The boat tilts dangerously to the left, and we lose our footing, stumbling to the floor. People scream. One mother is in hysterics, holding her baby to her chest, and I look away. I can’t help anyone. My head sways with each motion the boat takes, and the water drenches us whole as the threat of tipping over increases. I grip Kenan’s hand, and Lama and Yusuf crowd against him as the boat lurches and other people push against us.
We wait, not knowing what to do. Should we jump? Or stay on the boat until it goes down? Think, Salama, think!
Suddenly one voice, cutting like glass, rings in my head, warning me not to jump.
Don’t do it, Khawf’s voice resounds in my mind. It’s suicidal. You don’t know what’s waiting for you in the water. The boat is safer. The more people jump, the more likely it won’t sink. Don’t jump.
I close my eyes and breathe through my nose, visualizing my daisies.
Khawf isn’t here, but he lives in my head, always making me second-guess every decision. But that’s no way to survive—no way to live.
“Kenan,” I say. Tears begin streaming down my face. The end is near.
“We need to jump. When the boat goes down, it’ll create a current we won’t be able to swim against.”
He looks at me and nods solemnly. The waves lapping at the sides of the boat promise violence. Perhaps a bomb would have been the better choice.
Suddenly, one man carrying his daughter jumps out of the boat and into the water. She clings to his back, sobbing, and he’s using all of his energy to get away. It takes everyone exactly five seconds to follow suit.
Kenan grasps my hand tightly. We both nod.
“Now,” he says.
